


body and soul

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Tattooed Sam Winchester, Tattoos, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, like a lot, they’re just fluffy dorks in this one tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post.Dean hates the scar on Sam’s lower back, the everpresent reminder of the first time he lost Sam. So Sam decides to do something about it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 492





	body and soul

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by slut-for-jared on tumblr, by this incredibly hot post, and i knew immediately i HAD to write it. it turned out a wee bit angstier than expected but i think we all know that’s a theme with me now (sigh).
> 
> also, this marks my 100th fic on this site, and it seems fitting that it should be emotional wincest smut lmao

For three days, Sam doesn’t let Dean touch him.

He knows it’s beginning to worry Dean, the way Sam constantly keeps moving out of his reach, and the excuses he makes to avoid sex. He hates the way rejection looks on Dean’s face, and hates that it’s there because of him, but there’s not much he can do about it. Giving in is not an option, not just yet. So until then, Sam tries to reassure him in other ways – soft touches to his shoulder or arm, laughing at every little joke no matter how lame, smiling at him while hoping it conveys _I’m sorry, I love you, just give me a little time_.

On the third day, he goes into the kitchen before Dean wakes up, and pours all the milk they have down the sink. He feels guilty about the waste, but tells himself it’s for a good cause, and resolves to donate a few dollars to their local farm’s fundraising website when he can. After that, he goes back to Dean’s room, and gets back into bed like he never left. Dean doesn’t wake.

It doesn’t take long after that for Sam’s plan to begin to come to fruition – as expected, Dean wakes up some time later, goes to the kitchen to find that there’s no milk, groans and complains, and then informs Sam he’s going out to get milk, would he like anything from the store? And Sam smiles, says no thank you, I’m good, and then, the minute the bunker door shuts behind Dean, he takes his shirt off.

It requires quite a fair amount of contortion to reach the bandage on his lower back, but eventually Sam manages to peel it off, wincing a little when it pulls on his skin. The tattoo looks good in the mirror, jet black in stark contrast to his tanned skin, and ever starker against the paler tissue of his scar. Sam takes a minute to get himself used to it, running his fingers lightly over it and prodding gently at the center of the scar. It doesn’t hurt, not at all. It’s been three days, and yet the tattoo looks like it’s always been there.

D.W., stylized exactly like Dean’s initials carved into the Impala, into their table, and now into Sam’s skin. A physical marker, a reminder of who he is and who he belongs to, body and soul.

He just hopes Dean likes it.

It’s as if thinking of Dean has summoned him; just then Sam hears the bunker’s heavy front door slam shut, followed by Dean’s footsteps. He knows that when Dean doesn’t find him in the kitchen he’ll come straight to his room, which means he’s only got a couple minutes left now. Quickly Sam strips the rest of his clothing off and sits down at the foot of Dean’s bed, feeling awkward and uncertain like he hasn’t in years.

Sure enough, barely a few seconds after he’s sat down, Dean appears in the doorway. “There you are,” he says, and gives Sam a crooked smile when he realizes Sam is naked. “Is it my birthday?” he asks.

“No,” Sam says, and huffs out an awkward little laugh. “No, I - I just… I’m sorry, I guess,” he says suddenly.

“Sorry?” Now Dean looks concerned. “For what?”

“I know I’ve been acting a bit weirdly the last couple of days,” Sam says, knotting his hands together in his lap. “I just couldn’t take the bandage off and I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Bandage?” Dean frowns. “What bandage? Sammy, were you hurt?” He takes three steps into the room, hands reaching out for Sam.

“No,” Sam tells him, and stands just as Dean gets to him. “I… got a tattoo.”

Dean pauses, and then slowly scans Sam top to bottom. “Where?” he asks, when he doesn’t see it.

Instead of answering, Sam turns around wordlessly. He knows when Dean sees it, because Dean takes in a sharp breath, and then another, as if not quite sure what he’s seeing. A second later, shaky fingers land on Sam’s back, between his shoulder blades, and then make their way downwards, slow and hesitant.

“I know you hated seeing the scar,” Sam says quietly. “I know you hated being reminded of… of me dying. So I figured I could make it easier on you, somehow.”

Dean’s fingers ghost over the scar tissue. When they touch down, it sends shivers up Sam’s spine. Dean’s touch is rough, hands callused – and yet gentle, always so gentle, even now when he’s tracing over his own initials inked into Sam’s skin.

“Did–” Dean’s voice is hoarse, so he pauses, clears his throat, and tries again. “Did it hurt?”

“Not too much,” Sam answers, wishing he could see Dean’s face right now. “Do you… do you like it?”

“Do I _like_ it?” Dean’s answering laugh is wet with unshed tears. “God, Sammy.” A moment later he wraps both arms around Sam’s waist from behind, pulling him close, forehead resting against the back of Sam’s neck. “It’s perfect,” he whispers into the skin there.

“I’m glad,” Sam says, his own throat constricting. He puts his hands over Dean’s and laces their fingers together, bowing his head so he can look at their joined hands resting over his belly.

They stand like that for what feels like hours but could just as well be minutes, or seconds – Dean’s chest moving against Sam’s back as he breathes, arms solid and secure around Sam, lips pressed into Sam’s skin. And it’s only been three days, but Sam’s missed this so much, the way Dean touches him, the way he feels against him; he lets his head fall back onto Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes, letting himself indulge in this feeling of belonging, of home, of his brother’s gun oil and smoke scent.

“Why my name?” Dean asks after a few seconds. When he speaks Sam can feel the vibrations from his chest go through his own body.

He lifts his head and opens his eyes before turning in Dean’s embrace so that they’re face to face. Dean is fully dressed and Sam is completely naked, and yet he doesn’t feel vulnerable at all as he rests his forehead against Dean’s and closes his eyes once more. Dean’s arms settle around his waist again, and this time his fingers go straight to the tattoo, tracing it over and over again.

“Because,” Sam whispers against Dean’s mouth, “I’ll always be yours, Dean. My body, my soul, everything I am… all yours, _always_.”

Dean laughs a little, and closes the last millimeters of distance between them to kiss Sam, deep and possessive and slow. “Yeah,” he murmurs into Sam’s lips. “Mine, Sammy. _Mine_.”

He deepens the kiss and at the same time one of his hands dips lower, the other staying over the tattoo. Sam gasps into Dean’s mouth when he feels Dean’s fingers slide in between his ass cheeks and come to rest just over his hole. 

“This okay?” Dean murmurs when he breaks the kiss. 

“Yes,” Sam whispers. “I’ve missed this.”

Dean smiles a little and presses a soft kiss to the spot on his cheek that dimples when he smiles. “Me too,” he says. “Worth it, though.” Sam can still feel his callused fingers tracing the tattoo, over and over again. 

“What are you waiting for, then?” he asks. 

Instead of answering, Dean withdraws his hand from Sam’s ass and puts both of them on his shoulders, gently turning him around. “Wanna see it,” he says as he runs his hands down Sam’s arms, fingers leaving gooseflesh in their wake. 

The thought makes arousal curl deep in Sam’s gut, and he climbs onto the bed, settling on all fours. “This okay?” he asks when he’s done, looking at Dean over his shoulder. 

Dean pauses in the act of taking his shirt off, fingers stilling in the hem. “Fuck,” he curses, eyes taking in Sam’s body from head to toe. “Fuck. That’s perfect.”

Sam grins. “Okay.” There had been a time when this position would have embarrassed him, he thinks as he watches Dean undress. He would have felt shy just at the thought of being vulnerable like this, even in front of Dean, and especially in this position, everything so _exposed_. Of course, that had been before the first time they’d actually tried it, and Dean had done a damn good job of fucking Sam’s insecurities out of him.

Dean finishes stripping and steps out of his jeans, not bothering to move them aside. Sam is pretty sure one of them is going to trip over Dean’s clothes later — but that’s a problem for future Sam and future Dean. Right now, all he can focus on is Dean, with his hungry eyes and desperate touches and the way his gaze keeps returning to his name on Sam’s lower back. 

“Lube?” Sam asks. 

Dean chuckles. “Aren’t you in a hurry.” He leans in to plant a kiss in between Sam’s shoulder blades, and adds, “Got something else in mind.”

”What?” asks Sam. 

In lieu of replying, Dean runs a hand from the top of Sam’s spine and down his back, stopping just above the tattoo. Sam watches as he remains still for just a second, and then lowers his head and presses his lips to it.

The kiss is soft, gentle, but hot over the sensitive tissue, especially with Dean’s stubble scraping over Sam’s skin, and Sam sighs, a long exhale of pure contentment. Dean’s mouth on his skin has always felt good, but this? This is something else, something that makes his heart feel just a little too big for his chest, something that makes his entire body tingle with warmth. This is _worship_ — there is no other word to describe the way Dean is touching him right now, the awed, tender, absolutely _devoted_ quality to the way he traces the tattoo again, this time with his mouth and tongue. 

“Dean,” sighs Sam, his head falling forward in between his shoulders. “_Dean._” He hadn’t known that something as simple as a few kisses to his back could feel so damn _good_. 

“I got you,” Dean murmurs into his skin, his breath warm. Sam doesn’t know if the area is this sensitive because of the scar tissue — this is the one part of Sam’s body that Dean used to shy away from, the only part — or because of the fresh tattoo on it. He doesn’t care, either way, as long as Dean continues doing whatever it is he’s doing. It makes Sam feel as if there is warmth radiating from there, spreading across his whole body. He has been half-hard for a while now, and while normally he would be raring to get on with it, right now he just wants to sink into the moment, indulge in it and make it last as long as he can. 

Dean’s mouth moves lower, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses along Sam’s spine. Sam is so lost in the hazy sensation of it that he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, not until he feels Dean’s hands on his ass again, fingers gently pulling the cheeks apart.

”What—”

His question is cut off abruptly by the feeling of stubble against his ass, and then, a second later, something warm and wet against his hole. Even though this is nowhere near the first time they’ve done this, it still takes Sam a moment to realize that it’s Dean’s tongue, swirling in small, lazy circles around his hole. “_Dean_,” he moans, fingers tightening in the sheets below him as heat begins spreading through his thighs and lower belly. 

“Mm,” hums Dean, and the vibration of his voice feels so _good _against Sam’s ass. He moans again, back arching a little when Dean presses his tongue flat against his hole.

”Feels good,” he sighs, biting at his lower lip. It’s an understatement; it feels wonderful, and Dean is only just getting started. 

In response, Dean smiles, and continues licking at Sam’s ass, bolder strokes now, strong fingers holding Sam open and letting Dean in. Sam concentrates on breathing in through his nose, pressing his lips together, but even then he can’t stop moaning, whimpers escaping him despite his best efforts. He’s completely hard now, dick aching from arousal as it hangs untouched between his legs. 

There is a slight pressure on his hole just then, and a second later Dean’s tongue presses into him. Sam gasps at the sensation, fingers tightening in the sheets as Dean pushes in slowly but surely. He can feel Dean’s spit running down his ass, and it should be gross but it isn’t, it’s just unfairly hot, and all Sam can do is clench his teeth and whimper as Dean’s tongue fucks into him, skillful and sure. 

Time ceases to exist once more; Sam isn’t sure how long they spend like this, him writhing and pulling at the sheets, Dean behind him, keeping him in place with his hands at Sam’s hips as he opens him up with his tongue. All Sam knows is that his dick is so hard now that it’s bordering on painful, and that if Dean doesn’t fuck him now he’s going to lose his mind. 

“Dean,” he gasps out, feeling sweat pool in the dip of his spine. “Dean, I need — I need you to fuck me, _now, _right now—”

Dean’s tongue slips out of him and Sam lets out a breathy, wavering moan at the sudden loss of sensation. “I don’t know if it’s enough prep,” Dean begins, but Sam cuts him off. 

“It is,” he tells him, looking at him over his shoulder. “It is, it _is, _I just need you in me now, Dean, shit—”

“You sure?” Dean asks, still looking a little uncertain. 

Sam’s response is to stick his ass out further, and glare. “Yes!” he all but shouts, knowing he sounds like he’s begging. Hell, he _is_. “Yes, Dean, _please_!”

Dean just smirks at him, clearly no longer hesitant. He’s only human after all, and has been hard for a while now, and does not have any real history of being able to resist Sam when he’s like this, ready and open and pleading. And so he leans in to plant one last kiss to Sam’s lower back, before rising on his knees, taking his cock in hand, and guiding it to Sam’s hole. 

It burns a little when he pushes in and Sam drops his head again, moaning between clenched teeth. Dean groans at the tight fit as he continues in, both hands back on Sam’s hips. “Told you it wasn’t enough prep,” he accuses through gritted teeth. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” Sam assures him, panting. And it doesn’t — Dean’s mouth has done a great job at opening him up, just as good as his fingers usually do. And besides, Sam loves the extra burn, the way the stretch has an extra edge to it, the promise that he will be feeling this for a while. “I’m good, Dean, really,” he adds, and braces himself on one arm so he can reach behind himself with the other and squeeze Dean’s fingers. 

Dean smiles, taking his hand, and brings it up to his mouth to kiss it. It forces Sam momentarily into an awkward position, but then a second later Dean lets go, and Sam puts his arm down, taking the pressure off his other shoulder and arm. “You can move,” he tells Dean. “I’m good, I promise.”

”Okay, baby,” Dean says, and leans in to kiss Sam’s shoulder. Then he begins for real, small thrusting movements at first and then gradually increasing in both speed and depth. 

It doesn’t take long to establish a rhythm, the two of them having been at this for long enough to know exactly what the other needs. Sam gives up on trying to control his reactions and lets the moans and sighs fall unrestrained from his lips, knowing that Dean likes hearing it, loves seeing Sam fall apart beneath him. And in response Dean moves just a bit faster, angling his thrusts so that he hits Sam’s prostate, and Sam _keens_, back arching at the intense sensation. 

“So beautiful,” Dean murmurs, taking one hand off Sam’s hip to put it over the tattoo. He seems drawn to it almost against his will, coming back to it over and over again and unable to keep his hands off it. “So damn beautiful, Sammy, look at you, can’t believe you’re mine, baby.”

“Yours,” Sam pants out, pushing his ass back to meet Dean halfway. “Yours, Dean, yours, always—”

Dean lets out a moan, driving into Sam, hard and deep, and it feels so good that Sam wants to scream from it, the stretch of his hole around Dean’s cock, the way his body accommodates him, makes space for him as if knowing it’s where he belongs, where he always will, joined to Sam like this, no way of knowing where he ends and Sam begins. 

“Can’t believe you got my name on you,” Dean pants between thrusts, voice low and hoarse. “Mine forever, Sammy, baby, sweetheart—” 

“Yes,” Sam all but shouts. His cock is leaking precome, dripping down below to Dean’s sheets, and with every stroke, every single brush over his sweet spot, he feels himself getting closer and closer to the edge. “Dean, I’m close, I’m gonna come—”

“I got you, darlin’,” Dean murmurs, reaching around Sam so he can take him in hand. All it takes is his touch, though, and Sam is coming with a shout, his entire body trembling as he spurts all over Dean’s hand. He can feel himself clench around Dean, hears Dean’s choked off moan somewhere behind him, and does his best to keep himself up for as long as he can despite how hard his knees are trembling. 

Dean continues fucking into him, his rhythm faltering as he nears climax too. Once or twice he hits Sam’s sweet spot again, making Sam cry out from the overstimulation, and then, a few seconds later, his grip tightens on Sam’s hips enough to bruise, and he comes with Sam’s name on his lips, hot and wet inside him. 

Sam collapses on his belly when Dean is done, unable to keep himself up any longer. Dean goes down with him but moves at the last second to avoid falling on him. Instead he lands next to Sam, and immediately wraps both arms around him and pulls him close. Sam lets himself be manhandled into Dean’s embrace, his eyes falling shut as he feels Dean pull him into his chest. 

“All right, Sammy?” he asks softly, moving Sam’s hair out of his face for him. 

“Mm-hmm,” Sam hums. “You?”

Dean smiles against Sam’s skin. “Never been better, baby,” he murmurs, and kisses the knob of Sam’s shoulder. ”Still can’t believe it, you know,” he adds a moment later. “That you got my name on you.”

”Always been yours, Dean,” Sam reminds him, intertwining his fingers with Dean’s and letting their joined hands rest against his belly. “This just makes it even more official, I guess.”

Dean is still inside Sam; he moves his hips a little so he can slide out, and Sam makes a sound at the sensation, feeling wet and sticky as some of Dean’s come drips out of him. Paying the mess no mind, Dean melds his front to Sam’s back again, tightening his embrace until not even a millimeter of space remains between them. 

“Does it help?” Sam asks presently. “Seeing your name instead of the scar?”

“Yes,” Dean answers quietly, kissing the back of Sam’s neck. “More’n you know.”

“I’m glad,” Sam says.

There is a moment of silence, and then— “Hi, Glad. I’m Dean.”

Sam can _feel _Dean’s unholy smirk right now, and he groans. “Dean, just... _no_. How are you still this lame? I’d have thought you’d have outgrown it by now, man.”

“Shut up, you love me,” Dean answers playfully. “Got my name on you and everything.”

Sam just sighs, but he’s smiling, and he knows Dean is too. “Jerk,” he says lazily, knowing Dean will translate it to _I love you, I love you so much, I’m always going to be yours, _without Sam having to say the words. 

“Bitch,” Dean says at once, bright and fond, and disentangles one hand from Sam’s so he can place his palm flat over Sam’s heart. 

And Sam knows it means _I love you too, always will. _

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you thought!
> 
> love,  
remy


End file.
